


Wait a Little Longer

by Herenya_writes



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series (Movies)
Genre: And Jim is trying to be patient, Angst, Because I am incapable of leaving these two hanging, But he wants his Vulcan back, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Post-Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home, Spock doesn't have all of his memories back yet, Sweet Ending, please
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:20:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21867403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herenya_writes/pseuds/Herenya_writes
Summary: Following the events of The Voyage Home, Jim invites Spock to stay with him in his apartment, after all, it's his home too. But Spock still doesn't remember him, remember them, and Jim isn't sure how long he can stand this. He just wants Spock back.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock
Comments: 18
Kudos: 155





	Wait a Little Longer

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys. I'm back with a little bit of angsty Spirk (big surprise, right?) set after Voyage Home. The trial has already occurred, and now they're waiting for the Enterprise to be rebuilt. Hope you enjoy!

The apartment feels too big when Jim steps inside—too cold—but maybe he’s just projecting. It’s late, and he’s tired, and he knows the Vulcan next to him—the one wearing the emotionless mask in the shape of Spock’s face—is too. He takes hold of the bag that the man grasps and tugs it away from him gently. Spock lets go too easily, and Jim firmly ignores the pang in his heart.

“I’ll put your stuff in the bedroom,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper and yet still somehow too loud. “I can take the couch.”

“That is not necessary, Admiral,” says Spock’s voice, the same as he remembered but still somehow wrong.

The grin on Jim’s face is hollow, and the pain in his chest grows as he shakes his head. “It’s Jim, and this is your apartment too, even if you don’t remember it. Your clothes are still in the wardrobe, and your meditation mat and incense are in the closet.”

They hold one another’s gazes for an eternity and an instant. Jim can still feel the pull between them, the one that had linked them for years, since long before the end of their first five-year mission, the one that remained even after he had seen the light fade through a glass wall. It’s subdued now, though, and he worries that if he pulls too hard, it will snap, and the old Spock, the one he loved enough to throw his career and freedom away without a second thought for, would disappear forever. So he turns away and leads the way to the bedroom, leaving Spock’s bag by the door.

“I’ll be in the living room if you need me, Spock,” he says. He wants to reach out and place his hand on the Vulcan’s arm, just to reassure himself that the man was actually there and not some twisted figment of his mind, but he refrains. If this is a dream, he isn’t sure he wants to know.

“Sleep well, Admiral.” The words are wrong, but there is emotion there buried somewhere deep, and Jim will take whatever he can get, so he nods and doesn’t correct Spock for using his title instead of his name. 

Jim doesn’t sleep that night. He knows if he were to close his eyes, all he would see were images of a happier time. Instead, he lays awake and goes through a list of all of the things he wouldn’t do. He wouldn’t rush Spock. Inviting him to the apartment had probably broken that rule already, but where else would he have stayed? The Vulcan Embassy? No, this was Spock’s home too, and he would make sure that the Vulcan felt welcome. But he would not push him.

Sometime during the night—after he had composed a list a mile long of everything he wouldn’t do, all of the ways he wouldn’t push—Jim’s gaze fell on the ring on his finger, a simple silver band that glinted in the dim not-light. He pulled it off, running his finger over the inscription engraved on the inside of the band. The word was in Vulcan, but Jim knew the curves and lines of the letters as well as he knew his own name. T’hy’la. He looked down at it for another eternity before standing and crossing the living room to the picture frame on the book case.

Spock had never wanted much decoration in the apartment, and Jim had been used to sparse quarters in Starfleet, so the lack of ornamentation had never bothered him. He had, however, insisted that they keep one picture up. It was of he and Spock. Neither of them were looking at the camera—they hadn’t realized they were being photographed—but they were smiling anyway. Well, Jim was smiling, laughing at a joke Spock had made, delivered with his typical dry humor and quirked brow, but Jim still remembered the light in the Vulcan’s eyes when he had done so. Uhura had given him the picture when he and Spock had first announced…

Jim sighed and placed the ring behind the picture frame. Then, he reached up and pulled off the ring’s golden twin from his neck and set it behind the frame as well. For an instant, he thought of turning the picture face down, but he didn’t have the strength. Exhausted from the emotions that swirled in his chest, Jim collapsed on the couch and drifted to sleep as the sun crept above the horizon.

. . .

The first week was nearly silent. Spock was like a wraith, drifting in and out of rooms so quietly Jim wondered if his feet even touched the floor. At first, Jim tried to engage him in conversation when he could, but as Spock continued to give only one-word answers, he eventually faded into silence as well. It hurt, watching Spock without being able to reach out and comfort him, but he managed it. He would be the quiet support that the Vulcan needed, and when he was ready to speak, he would listen. He could wait a little longer.

. . .

During the second week, Spock spent most of his time either in the bedroom or the balcony that was attached to it. Sometimes, Jim would seek him out and stand beside him as they looked over the grey mist of San Francisco. The silence between them remained, but it was different, warmer. Spock never turned toward him during these times, but he did not turn away either, and Jim counted that as a victory.

Later that same week, Jim was standing on the balcony, not really seeing the landscape before him—his mind somewhere between the stars and the sands of Vulcan—Spock came to stand with him, holding a warm mug of tea in one hand and coffee in the other. Jim couldn’t hide the surprise in his eyes when the Vulcan handed him the coffee, and he imagined that Spock’s lips moved a centimeter as well.

They stood there in silence for hours, long after both the coffee and tea were gone. Jim was about to turn to step inside—the sun had gone down an hour and a half ago, and Spock needed his rest—when a gentle hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“My memories of events outside of those recorded in official logs are scarce,” Spock said, his voice quiet and brittle. It was so different from what Jim remembered, but he hung to every word. “And the emotions attached to those memories are even more difficult for my mind to grasp. Specifically those centered around yourself.” The words were a quiet apology, and Jim’s heart cried out. He wanted so badly to envelope the Vulcan in his arms and not release him until he remembered just how loved he was, but instead, all he did was smile sadly.

“Take your time, Spock. I can wait.”

Spock bowed his head. “I thank you for your patience with me. I know that my presence is likely a burden on you.”

Jim allowed himself to reach out and squeeze Spock’s arm lightly. “Never. Sleep well, Spock.” Then, he turned away and left the balcony before the Vulcan could see the tears in his eyes.

. . .

It got better over time. Jim set up a chessboard one night, and the next morning, he saw that one of the pieces had been moved. They played chess that night, and talked quietly of nothing. Spock won, and Jim saw a small bit of light return to his eyes.

. . .

“You do not have to go out of your way to procure ingredients for Vulcan cuisine, Jim,” Spock said, and Jim forced down the feeling of joy that leapt in his chest at the sound of his name falling from those lips as he shook his head, flipping the Vulcan vegetables over to sear on the other side.

“It’s not out of my way, Spock. Besides, I know you hate replicator food, especially when it’s supposed to be Vulcan, and the healers said you need to be eating more.” The man was still so thin, so brittle, as if a strong breeze could snap him in half or carry him away.

“It would be illogical to dislike food that is essentially the same, despite its synthetic nature.”

Jim smiled. That’s what Spock had told him the first time he had tried to make a Vulcan dish and nearly burnt the apartment down doing it. Once he had gotten the hang of it, however, Spock had taken to requesting that he cook when he could, and Jim had been more than happy to oblige.

“Just let me cook for you, Spock, please.”

There was silence for a moment, and then a small nod. “Very well.”

. . .

They were playing chess one night when their hands accidentally brushed as Jim attempted to move his piece before Spock had fully removed his hand from the board. Alarm bells went off in Jim’s brain and he pulled back instantly.

“I’m sorry, Spock,” he apologized instantly, cradling his hand as if he had been burned by the brief touch and turning his eyes down to the chessboard. “I didn’t mean to do that. I should have been more careful.” When he looked up at Spock, however, he found confusion on the Vulcan’s face instead of the disgust or anger he had expected.

“You have limited your physical contact with me while I have resided here.” 

Jim didn’t know how to respond. He had been doing his best to keep contact between he and Spock to a minimum whenever he could in an effort to make the Vulcan feel more comfortable—take it slow, he had to take it slow—but the look on Spock’s face made him wonder if he had done so for Spock or for himself. 

“I thought it would be better if I took things a little bit at a time.” He bit his lip nervously. He could stare down a Klingon without flinching, but under Spock’s gaze, he suddenly felt the need to hide. “I don’t want to rush you, especially if you don’t remember…if you never decided...I didn’t want to...” His voice trailed away, and he looked away, no longer able to meet Spock’s eyes.

There was a silence for several moments, loud enough that Jim was certain he would go deaf if it lasted much longer. Then, “It is true that there is much I still do not remember about our relationship, Jim, but I have spent hours in meditation attempting to unlock that portion of my mind with some success. There are powerful emotions there, and approaching them is difficult, but it is not unpleasant.”

Jim looked up into brown eyes. “What,” he bit his lip again, “what does that mean?”

Spock reached across the chessboard, and Jim’s eyes were instantly drawn to the two outstretched fingers. He looked back up at Spock, not daring to believe that what he saw was true. 

“It means that although I do not remember our relationship in its entirety, Jim, I do remember that it existed, and I remember that I was never more content with my life than when I was by your side, both as your first officer and after our missions together had ended.” The deep, certain voice was like lifewater to Jim, and he felt tears stream from his eyes as he echoed Spock’s gesture, sliding their fingers together gently.

When the Oz’hesta ended, Jim was smiling widely enough that his cheeks hurt. He forced his face to relax, however, and looked up to meet Spock’s gaze once more. He had to be certain that this was what the Vulcan truly wanted.

“Spock, I don’t know how much you remember, but I need to know that you want this, want me, because of what you feel, not because you think that you need to conform to my desires. As much as I lo—as much as want you by my side, I don’t want to keep you somewhere you no longer wish to be.” He swallowed, forcing down the lump in his throat that threatened to choke off the rest of his words. “I promise I’ll understand if things have changed between us, if you want to leave. I should have told you as much sooner, but I was scared I would somehow cause you more harm, and I swear that is the last thing that I want to do. Please, don’t let me hurt you.” His head fell as he finished speaking, his last words nothing more than a whispered plea.

After a few moments of silence, Jim felt a firm hand lift his chin until his eyes were level with Spock’s once again. The brown irises swirled with emotions that Jim hadn’t dared to hope to see, and he prayed that they were real. “You have never hurt me, Jim. Despite the many holes in my memory, the ones I do retain have a common theme in them. You. Your essence has threaded itself into my very being, Jim, and I cannot imagine a life without you in it.” It was Spock’s turn to glance away. “I simply wish that I could remember our relationship. I fear I have hurt you with my distance as I have attempted to recover my memories.”

Jim stood from his chair suddenly and grabbed Spock’s hands in his own, pulling the Vulcan to his feet before leading him over to the couch where they both sat, the chess game long forgotten. Jim sat facing Spock, their knees brushing together and still holding his hands. “I am willing to wait,” he declared quietly. “I am willing to wait for you for as long as it takes for you to remember, and if you never remember, I will be content with whatever you can give.” He spoke the words with as much conviction as he could, praying that the man across from him would understand.

“But if you want, I can tell you about the relationship we shared, and if you decide that you want that, I would be overjoyed to share it with you again. If you decide that you don’t, I promise I will understand.”

The light had returned to Spock’s eyes, and his lips turned up in a small but radiant smile. “Tell me, Jim.”

And so he did. The night turned to day as Jim held Spock close and told him of all of the things they had shared together, starting with their first five-year mission, back when they were the best command team in the ‘fleet. Not together, but not apart either. He told him of how they had grown closer, of how when they had returned to Earth, Spock had taken a job at the Academy so that he could be near Jim while he fulfilled his duties as an Admiral. Then, sometime around seven in the morning, his voice faltered, and he found that he was unable to continue. Spock, being the perceptive Vulcan he was, understood why.

“I caused you pain,” he said quietly. It was a statement, not a question, and Jim didn’t really know how to reply. Spock had hurt him; he had practically torn out his heart by leaving, and Jim had hated him for it. But that hate had quickly turned to an aching need to have him by his side once more, and the Vulcan had returned eventually, just as he always did.

“Do you remember undergoing Kholinar?” he asked, wincing inwardly at how broken his voice sounded. He didn’t want to make Spock feel guilty about something that he might not even remember doing.

Spock nodded. “It is in the official record, so my mind has been able to recall the event with more clarity than many others. I remember that I could not complete the discipline as I heard your mind call out to mine.” He paused, and Jim knew that he was remembering, or rather trying to remember, something painful. “I do not recall why I began it, however.”

Jim brushed his fingers over Spock’s knuckles. He had not let go of Spock’s hands the entire time that he had been speaking, allowing the shallow meld to add to his narrative, to show Spock a glimpse of his emotions when his words no longer did them justice. He wondered what the Vulcan felt through the meld now.

“When you left, you left me a note. It was short, barely half a page, but it said that you felt the intensity of your emotions toward me were dangerous, that they would end up hurting us both in the end. I think you were scared that one day you would be forced to choose between me and the wellbeing or survival of others and you would choose me.”

He took a deep breath, pushing back the memories of nights spent crying into Bones’s shoulder, or drinking until he forgot the pain, or the one night when he had gone out to a club to find company only to run to the bathroom and puke the second another person’s lips touched his. That was all over now.

Spock could obviously sense his distress, for he squeezed his hands, a small show of support that meant the world and more. 

“But you came back, Spock, and that’s what matters. We had some rough going there for a while afterward, but eventually, we managed to get it right. We were about to—well, we were happy.” Jim drew his hands away from Spock’s and glanced down. 

Spock had said he wanted to know what their relationship had been, but this had happened such a short time before Khan, and it had taken them so long to reach that point. What if Spock wasn’t ready for that yet? Jim had just given him a crash course on a relationship that had spanned over a decade, even if it hadn’t been official for most of that time. It was a lot to process at once. He should just—

“Jim, look at me, please,” Spock requested in that quiet voice that Jim had never been able to deny. He looked up, meeting dark eyes with his own. “As you have recounted our relationship for the past 9.572 hours, I have remembered more of what we shared.” His gaze turned down, and Jim followed it to where it rested on his unadorned hand. “I did not remember the significance of the ring that you wore when we traveled to the past, but I did notice that you removed it shortly after we returned to present-day Earth. I remember now, and I am sorry that you felt the need to hide the extent of our relationship for my sake.”

Jim swallowed thickly. “It’s okay. We’d only been engaged a little less than a month when Khan happened. Bones suggested burying your ring with you, but I couldn’t let go of it, couldn’t let go of you.”

Spock leaned forward, gently kissing away the tears that had begun to trace their way down his cheeks. “I am here, and I do not intend to let go,” he said quietly, and Jim only nodded, his words caught in his throat. Then, Spock stood and crossed the room to the bookcase, and Jim could do nothing but watch, frozen in surprise, as he retrieved the two rings Jim had hidden there weeks ago.

Then, he returned to the couch, but instead of sitting once more, he knelt in front of Jim, a smile in his eyes. “James Tiberius Kirk,” he said, his rich voice quiet but sure, every bit as warm as Jim remembered it being, “will you do me the honor of becoming my husband?”

Jim nodded, his vocal cords refusing to work as Spock slipped the silver ring back onto his finger in the early morning light. He pulled Spock up onto the couch again, capturing his lips in a kiss, pouring into it all of the emotions that had swirled inside of him over the past month. 

Finally, they pulled away, resting forehead to forehead. “I am sorry I took so long to return to you, my T’hy’la,” Spock whispered, his fingers threading through Jim’s once more.

Jim smiled, his eyes slipping closed as he basked in the warmth that flooded between them through the shallow meld that had formed everywhere their skin touched. “I would wait an eternity if it meant that you could be mine.”

“Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> So, that was really short, I know, but I just felt like writing something from Jim's POV as Spock slowly recovered. I've read a bunch of fics with this premise, and I love them, so I figured I'd try my hand at it. As always, please let me know what you thought of the story, as short as it was. I crave comments like a man in the desert craves water. ;) Also, this fic was beta'd by the lovely voulezvulcan on tumblr. Go check her out and give her some love! Thanks for reading!


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